Risks feel real in 'Impress These Apes'; 'Smartphones' a shift for Trap Door

I've long been a fan of "Impress These Apes," the always surprising comedy competition that generates some of the city's most indelible performances each year. There is no other stage show like it in terms of comedic daredevilry, and I've never been so acutely aware of how daunting it can be for a person to stand alone on stage and perform untested material. Pride and ego are on the line and the stakes feel real. As a result, the show has attracted many a performer looking to prove their creative mettle (nearly 50 auditioned for eight slots this year) and it has become something of a rite of passage in local comedy circles.

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Yet "Impress These Apes" (which began its seventh season earlier this week and is the brainchild of Blewt! Productions) remains something of an underground phenomenon, known only among comedy nerds. For now, that may be a good thing. Still a shaggy affair long after it should have outgrown this sort of thing, the show isn't making its best case at the moment.

The two-month run mimics the basic format set out by "American Idol," replacing music with comedy challenges and sending the whole enterprise into an alternate "Planet of the Apes"-type universe where a panel of simian judges scores the contestants each week. The structure of the show still works like gangbusters, but the judging has started to feel a bit rote, with lesser efforts receiving high scores. But the bigger issue is pacing, or the lack thereof. Host Fuzzy Gerdes is the one who determines just how fast or slow things will move, and let's hope he embraces the former. The slack, ragtag charm has worn off.

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The challenges, however, remain as meticulously detailed and designed as ever. Week One required the participants to introduce themselves by writing (and singing) a song about their best friend, while also accompanying themselves on an instrument.

For whatever reason, this prompted a surfeit of earnestness. That's not necessarily a bad thing; real-deal emotion is a scary choice for a comedian and you could see the nerves on opening night. But it also makes you wonder if the group collectively forgot that the riskier (and far more honest) approach demands pushing beyond sentiment to find the unique, the bizarre and the offbeat.

Joe Kwaczala managed to do that best (the judges disagreed; he came in second) with a legitimately witty song on guitar about braving high school with his partner in dorkitude: "It's a shame / it's like we were playing a game / to see who came out more lame." (You can watch the show at impresstheseapes.com.) Meredith Kachel's droll keyboard ditty about her friend Liz and her other friend "Anxiety" had a confessional "A Chorus Line" feel to it and was intriguing for its knowing self-deprecation contrasted with real vulnerability. The night's winner, Martin Morrow, also straddled the line between emotion and strange comedy with an ode to his mom, punctuated by just two notes played over and over again on his trombone and the occasional cow bell flourish.

The current judging panel includes Bryan Bowden's "Dukes of Hazzard" good ol' boy Bushmeat; Paul Luikart's Captain Apehab (wearing the requisite peacoat even in the dead of summer; now that's commitment to character); the flamboyant non-sequiturs of Steve Gadlin's Barry Shirley (a character that is nothing less than the second coming of Charles Nelson Reilly); and the only one to give actual (and needed) critiques, Erica Reid as April May (in her turban and ball gown, she has the look of Tallulah Bankhead and the kvetching voice of Joan Rivers).

Week Two's challenge (this Monday) has competitors devising five minutes of stand-up centered on broad themes they picked at random, including "tame," "wild" and "famous."

Through Sept. 10 at ComedySportz, 929 W. Belmont Ave. Tickets are $10 at 773-549-8080 or comedysportzchicago.com

"This week's New Yorker cover is an instant classic," someone Tweeted a few days ago, referring to the July 23 edition of the magazine and its illustration of a family standing on the beach, staring at their smart phones. "We really are slaves to our phones."

Experimental Spanish playwright Emilio Williams, who has recently transplanted to Chicago, has found the right home at Trap Door Theatre, a company that has yet to meet an avant-garde idea it didn't like. Williams, who also directs, is going for something far less self-serious than is typical for Trap Door and it is a welcome change, even if the play is little more than a goof.

Two couples await the arrival of a friend and spend the ensuing hours picking and poking at one another, only to pause to gaze deeply into their phones, hoping for some answer to the mysteries of life in this playful and ultimately insubstantial riff on both "Waiting for Godot" and "No Exit" — a wink that becomes significantly less fun when the characters clumsily namecheck both works.

That said, the production design is spectacular, evoking an mid-60s flavor. Every last prop and costume is color-coordinated in coal gray and Pepto pink. It looks fantastic, and the performances (hilariously arch) are stylized and otherwordly and just strange enough to keep the nonsense on track.